Category Archives: Story mode activate

For every hobby, there is an equal and opposite counter-hobby. For some people, this is more true than others, and it is especially true for this one particular person. His main purpose in life was to enter into fandoms of the most various kinds, and then introduce subtle yet perceptible quirks which over time would come to define the communities in question. Small gestures, words and habits of contextual emphasis which make sense to those of the in-group, but increasingly little sense to those in the out-group.

Granted, this is a process that occurs naturally within any grouping with a sufficient density of communicative frequency. His specialty was to find the specific points where this process took place and ever so gently nudge it along. A word of encouragement here, a nod of acknowledgement there, a callback to previous occurrences after just enough time to jog everyone’s memory. It was subtle, discreet and – to a surprising extent – super effective.

What he did not know was that he had been found out, and ever so gradually accrued a fandom of his own. The fandom did not stalk him per se, but it did recognize his handiwork on sight, and were omnipresent enough to have eyes wherever he was likely to be. It watched, observed and – at times when he seemed less enthused than usual – nudged him along, ever so gently.

The event is imminent, yet long in arriving. Anyone with even the slightest of foresight could have seen it coming and taken appropriate measures to prevent it.

Yet, here we are.

It is way too late too late to change anything now. The wheels have spun too long, the circular processes with accumulative effects have had too much time to pile up. We are stuck in this potentiality, and have to ride it out until the end.

The only thing that can save us is a message back in time, to prevent the chain of events that led us here. Fortunately, the chains is boring, repetitive and based upon making the same bad choice over and over again. As we’ve discovered during the course of our investigations, it only takes one single break of this chain to break it, so we should be able to prevent things with a single intervention. A single, well-crafted message, arriving at the right moment.

With this in mind, I set out to write a message to myself. I ought to know, right?

* * *

Huh. Strange. There is a message here that I do not remember writing. It is definitely from me – I can recognize myself all over it. But it is also to me. And it references things that make no sense, and urges me to make life changes for no real good reason.

I must have been more tired than I thought during that last writing all-nighter. Especially that part about the shoes. I like my shoes.

Not only had they moved. They had also made it very plain why they had left the cemetery. It was the new corpses, they wrote on a lifeless note hanging on the outer gates. The outer gates swing hither and dither, as ancient gates are wont to do, but the chilly winds did not seem to affect note. Some of the cold indifference of death was at work here.

Yet. Something had made the skeletons stir. The locals, who rarely visited the cemetery, busy as they were with their modern lives, were at a loss to explain what had happened, or how. After discussing at length, they decided to bring in outside help.

Outside help arrived, en masse. Journalists, those of supernatural inclination, academics, and utterly natural tourists all offered their opinions as to what had happened. It was aliens, werewolves, bad qi, crop circles on the other side of the ocean (somehow), sunspots, bone-eating bacteria – any number of speculations were tossed around in the hopes of finding an audience.

At length, the enthusiasm died off, to the punny satisfaction of news editors everywhere. When most of the tourists, supernaturally inclined and journalists had left, the academics dared to make educated guesses. A particular academic, a professor of cultural geography and human ecology, suggested that it was due to gentrification. The skeletons were of old stock, and had a very particular set of customs. They were dead set on these customs, too, and would rather resurrect and move to another place than adapt to the strange fancy ways of the newcomers.

As the professor expounded his theory, the locals nodded. That did indeed sound like the old folks they remembered from back in the days. They had been stubborn even in life, so why would they be anything else in the afterlife?

It began as stories, which grew into legends, which faded into myths, which transformed into ides. Very specific ideas. Ideas of the kind expressed by the phrase “let’s go there and find out”.

As so often is the case with these things, this idea was sufficient to set people in motion. Towards the aforementioned “there”.

At first, the inhabitants of “there” were enthused about the notion that the stories, legends and myths had some nugget of truth to them. A while later, when the local scholars had identified them as the travel logs of a notoriously enthusiastic drug smuggler from the 17th century, enthusiasm faded.

But people kept coming. And they did not update their ideas, or take into account the numerous available options of finding out the truth without going there.

As more and more people kept coming, the locals felt it necessary to discuss the situation. At length. At the conclusion of the talks, it was decided that the myths were actually true, and that these are who we are now. For better, worse and immense tourism profits.

The park was overcrowded. This fact did not square with the apparent abundance of free space to stroll around leisurely in, until another inescapable fact made itself clear.

Abundantly clear.

The noise.

The park, rich in flowers, greens and ambitions, also featured a certain lack of foresight. As these things happen, any given part of the decorative greenery could easily be accommodated and cared for on its own terms. Taken together, however, it turned out that there would be at least one maintenance crew out and about at all times, performing prophylactic gardening.

Loud gardening. Power tool gardening.

Attempts to rectify the situation quickly bound up against the limits of biology. Some plants needed more attention that others, and some were averse to being overly attended. Any attempt to standardize their care would inevitably lead to some portion of the garden getting either too little or too much attention, and there were no funds to replace anything already rooted. It quickly became clear that this situation would simply have to persist.

Thus it came to pass that the most beautiful garden also came into a state of being perpetually overcrowded. Aurally speaking.

Being a prankster moon, it didn’t boom this at the world of its orbit. Rather, it boomed it into the minds of those on that very world who watched it. Discreetly but omnidirectional, as is the wont of moons everywhere.

The cultural effects didn’t materialize. Moons do not boom apocryphic messages into people’s heads, and they are definitely not prankster moons who would do such a thing just to mess with the collective heads of humanity. Thus, the cultural unity built on shared experiences which could have happened, didn’t.

Instead, the incidence of individual weirdos who thought that the moon spoke at them increased. As one might expect after such an event.

But you and I. You and I know the truth. We have heard the Words, and we know what to make of them:

Come join me for a pizza, anytime. We are alone in this world, but that is not our destiny. Bring a friend; there’s enough pizza.

It was one of those days. His aunt had just told him about the newest development. Apparently, his cousin’s new girlfriend had (unbeknownst to him) been a part of an open triad, where one of the other members were a member another triad which included another relative. This had led to some awkwardness, and said relatives would have to have emergency talks in order to sort things out. Meanwhile, the failing health of the family matriarch had everyone on edge, as the exact nature of who got to inherit what was still in considerable flux. This, too, would necessitate emergency talks. As would the nature of the house of inheritance – it was in dire need of repairs, and there were several strong opinionated family members who argued that these repairs should take place in a joint effort before anyone died. Repairs which, naturally, would be financed on a basis of solidarity, family business being family business, after all. Just as naturally, those parts of the family who had little or no funds to cover such expenses were less inclined to agree to this proposal, but were also slightly too ashamed of this fact to argue against it with much vigor. Add to this the equally recent and disastrous divorces that had taken place, which further added to the shame. There existed thus, his aunt concluded, a need for someone to argue this point without raising the ire of those who didn’t agree with it. Tensions lurked underneath the surface, and it is important to sidestep these whilst at the same time plant the idea that sticking together as a family sometimes meant that sacrifices had to be made. It also had to be done soon, as the health was indeed failing and the likelihood of any further family gatherings in the immediate future were slim. It would be delicate, and it would have to be quick.

If all of this is confusing to you, imagine how it is for Alejandro, who even now disembarks the bus and greets the awaiting family gathering. He smiles, and tries his best to be casually friendly to everyone present.

Suddenly, there they are. Irrefutable. Impossible to deny. All the signs are there – burning bushes, singing choirs of angels, awe-inspiring harbingers of heavenly glory, all telling you in no uncertain that this is It.

The Words of God.

After the shock and a surprisingly large number of angels have left, you notice that there are also some words of God. You notice the difference at once, not only because the Words are written on stone tablets that glow faintly in the dark, but also because the words are hastily written on a post-it note attached to one of the tablets. The words are as follows:

You are the chosen one. Take my Words and share them with the world. Moses style. Everyone must know.

No one ever told you why you were chosen, but you figure that the Almighty knows who’s who. You waste no time thinking, and begin reading the Words.

You read.

You read on.

You are slightly dismayed.

You have almost read them all.

Your face moves in mysterious ways.

You have read them all.

The Words of God are in dire need of copyediting.

You are filled with divinely conflicted feelings. On the one hand, these are the literal Words of God, and as such there is significance in everything. Scholars, politicians and ordinary people will ponder these Words for countless of hundreds of years to come, and the exact wording will have the power to change the lives of billions. These are the Words. They matter. God has spoken.

On the other hand. This simply will not do. God has a reputation, and there are proprieties to think of. Grammar has rules. This is not a matter to take lightly.

The plot thickened. Thickd. Became even more entangled, convoluted and brimmed with subtext. Indeed, it started to defy the boundaries of what a ‘plot’ was and is, and now encroaches upon nearby (physically or contextually) story lines in an attempt to gain some living space. What once seemed like an impenetrable mess of plots upon plots, became even more messy and impenetrable.

To illustrate: the protagonist just raised an eyebrow. This, while a common literary trope used to convey a subtle emotional shift, caused the storyline to go completely off the rails. It, at the same time, implied that an upcoming marriage proposal was absolutely out of the question, that new mercantilist policies were indeed going through the legislative motions, that it would be pointless to challenge anyone present to a duel on that particular day, that certain very specific duels could very well take place tomorrow (unless anything unexpected were to happen, that pizza for dinner would be just fine, that the ancient artifacts inhabiting the attic really needed to be rooted out before they turned truly sentient, that the princess ingenue of the neighboring kingdom might very well be instrumental in a potential plot that hopefully won’t be necessary, that the upcoming colonization of Mars needs to be carefully reconsidered before anything at all is communicated about it, and that the cat that just entered the room is actually quite cute.

All this from one eyebrow. Just the one eyebrow. In just one motion.

Now imagine everything doing anything conveying just as much subtext, at all times, in all situations. To all characters. At the same time.

And then imagine this plot THICKENING. Adding even more subtext, contextual cues and implicit imperatives to potential actions – more of everything!

Thunder roared in the distance. It didn’t do the gentle distant thundering that an ordinary thunder would. It roared, with an intensity that made even the immortal souls feel the eternal smallness of being. The rain drizzled down on the soon-to-be battlefield, steaming the demons of Hell as they gathered on the one side. On the other, the solemn angels of Heaven stood in perfect formation, silent, waiting.

This was the day. The foretold day. The day that would determine all the days to come, being the end of days.

Silence, rain and thunder reigned supreme over the scene. Then, as one, the hordes of Hell and the angels of Heaven drew their swords, and as one the two sides took a first step towards each other.

The end is indeed nigh.

[fade out, new scene]

A high school. Two teenagers, both madly in love with each other, but barely able to communicate, stand in a school yard. Awkwardly, as only teenagers in love can awkward.

This. This is the day, the one day that is going to determine all the days to come. The day she would ask him out. The end of days of waiting.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her hand approaches his. And slowly, ever so slowly, his hand approaches right back. Awkwardly.